Categories > Books > Even if it Kills Me
The Almost Kiss
0 reviewsUche turns a Valentine date into a blood bath before midnight. Everybody thinks he is dead, but a strange text message triggers a series of twisted events, which proves that he's still alive and in...
0Unrated
It was early in a chilly Monday morning with spotless white ominous clouds of fog wrapping every inch of nature. Long trains of soothing dry Harmattan wind receded hurriedly towards Femi as breaths of warm packs of air broke free from under his wide nostrils into oblivion.
The often vibrant tropical sun appeared to be lethargic as it slept comfortably in the blue sky. Life in the populous and poorly sanitized city of Lagos seemed to be panning out faster than the day before.
It was February 15, 2016, a day after Saint Valentine’s Day—Christmas for the hopeless romantics, but for folks like Femi, it was just a typical day of work.
Femi restlessly sat in a yellow ramshackle commercial bus prying along the unforgettable Catholic Mission Street. With his fingers and chin numb with cold, his hands found refuge in his trouser pockets. He peeped through the shattered window beside him at the busy and familiar city that stretched to infinity. He was neatly presented in an essentially decorated Nigeria Police uniform, looking smart as always. The three red ‘V’s on his blue, short sleeves indicated that the dashingly-handsome officer was a Sergeant. Waking up in the morning knowing fully well that it could be your very last day, meeting and dealing with hardened and unrepentant criminals, chasing hoodlums down the street and getting shot at—that was as close to prudence as it got when you're an itinerant 30-something-year-old police officer in an environment where many craved for fast money and illegal activities.
His bus rode pass the ever-busy Lagos City Hall, the famous King’s College with students in sparkling white uniform loitering along the corridors before assembly was due to start, and the French gothic style architecture of the Holy Cross Cathedral with a few worshippers praying before the grotto.
Though born in Lagos, this was the first time the young officer had been to this part of town.
Like every other day in a chaotic city, a tourist could see and appreciate the daily and routinely hustle of hardworking and ‘fast-walking’ locals reporting to their workplaces, even before the sun rose.
They could easily take photographs of derelict public buses prying speedily and dangerously along poorly maintained highways, leaving a trail of thick poisonous fumes in their tracks, thus awakening self-destruction.
One could even catch a sight of a stampede, as determined and desperate ‘Lagosians’ aggressively struggle to board already-moving buses that are jam-packed with noisy citizens, and fearless young men literally hanging on the edge of bus’ entrances with their eyebrows kneaded in slight worry.
Every living thing that drew breath, even the roosters, were busy, crowing and roaming around every edge of emptiness, ducking to the filthy grounds beneath their feet, perpetually in search of food.
The well-enjoyed and long-overstayed weekend break was over, and the daily monotonous routine of the chief commercial city of its nation, unfolded all over again.
Femi finally arrived at Saint Nicholas House, a white fourteen-storey mixed-use building. ‘Saint Nicholas dey?’ the shabby bus conductor dressed in slippers and a smelly undershirt, barked in Pidgin English. ‘Saint Nicholas dey,’ Femi hurled back.
He disembarked as soon as the dilapidated vehicle came to a halt. The moment his well-polished black Valentino leather shoes hit the tarred road, the bus sped off, recklessly hugging the road again.
Femi stood tall before the high-rise building.
Slowly, he raised his head, training his sight at the skyscraper rooted before him, while private vehicles and commercial tricycles pried along the expensive Campbell road behind him. Beside him was an empty white ambulance, completely buried in the faint shadow of the tall building. After a momentary admiration of the elite landscape, he inched behind two female nurses in clean white uniform, headed for the entrance of the building, chitchatting to one another in high-pitched voices and laughing. There was a large blue signboard just above the entrance, which read ‘St. Nicholas Hospital’. Femi was welcomed to a neat, orderly and somewhat quiet king-size room. His orbs bright with anticipation, flicked across every square foot of the reception hall diffused with inaudible sounds. There was an old lady, finely wrinkled, completely grey-haired, wearing an old-fashion reading glasses, probably in her mid-70s, been pushed on a wheel chair by a young female nurse dressed in neat uniform.
The room was mainly crammed with five rows of posh iron benches where families of patients impatiently waited. Some were in grief, others were in tears, but many were overwhelmed with anxiety without any verbal interaction with anyone. Seated on one of the benches was a young gentleman on blue shirt and a plain grey trouser, swiping the screen of a sleek tablet, with his eyes glued on it. Next to him was an exhausted lady dressed in a native purple attire, dozing off without a snore. Behind them was a robust woman dressed in an uncommon ankara fabric, discreetly talking to herself in despair.
There was a vending machine at one corner of the room filled with attractively wrapped foods and bottled drinks. Next to the machine was the bronze sculpture of the Late Nigerian gynecologist and obstetrician, Moses Majekodunmi who founded the hospital. In front of everyone was a beautifully-lit mini-grocery store with an equally beautiful female store-attendant wearing an enchanting smile as she read Nicholas Sparks’ The Notebook. Femi swaggered further into the hall-like room, towards the stunning receptionist who comfortably sat behind a busy desk, chewing gum, and routinely stroking the keys of a keyboard, while perpetually staring at a bright computer monitor mounted in front of her.
‘Hello,’ Femi politely drew her attention.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘I am here to see one of your patients.’
Her fingers and jaw froze as she looked away from the blinding monitor and took a sharp glance at Femi who stood straight across the desk. ‘What’s the patient’s name, sir?’ She radiated a welcoming smile. ‘I don’t know but she was brought here early this morning after a motor accident last night.’ Femi said thoughtfully. She swiftly typed through a long database of patients.
‘Okay, Chioma Okafor,’ she read out.
‘You may need to come back later, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘The patient is stable and responding to treatment, but she isn’t awake yet.’
‘Don’t worry I will wait.’
‘It may take several hours.’
‘It’s alright, I’ve got all day. Just don’t forget to let me know when she’s awake.’
‘Okay, sir. Please have a seat.’ She pointed.
Femi turned around and boorishly paced away towards the identical benches. He sank at the edge of an empty bench just behind the woman in ankara. Instantly, he inhaled the sweet fragrance that romanced the African wax swathing around her curves.
Meanwhile, at the notorious Ikoyi police station along Awolowo Road, a one-storey building with blue, yellow and green stripes, valiant police officers in uniform were littered all over the premises, geared with bulletproofs, dressed in camouflages, and armed with semi-automatic rifles in one arm. They walked gallantly in groups, chatting to one another, or stood put nonchalantly, dialoguing with civilians.
A blue metro patrol van was parked in front of the station and along the neatly tarred road, with its engine still running. Two fearsome officers were seated in the van.
One was seated on the driver’s seat, while the other rested on one of the two long benches in the back of the van, dressed in black shirt and green khaki trouser, with an AK-47 rifle in his possession. They seemed to be maliciously waiting for someone to arrive or for something to happen. Just behind the police van was a private truck with impounded motorcycles jam-packed in its carriage. There was a signboard that strictly prohibited loitering, hawking and parking.
In the incident room, mini-sized, with a small desk at one corner, two junior officers neatly dressed in complete black uniform stood behind a counter.
The chair behind the desk was vacant, with rough dusty piles of brown paperback files defacing the top of the desk. One of the officers was a Corporal with two red ‘V’s attached to his sleeves, while the other was a Sergeant.
A white plastic name-tag pinned to the uniform of the Corporal, just above his left breast pocket, read ‘Kunle Adeyemo’, while that of the Sergeant read ‘Tega Ogbegbo’. Tega, in his mid-30s, was physically unimpressive, rugged, not handsome, not ugly—just plain. He was rebellious, rude, and out-spoken. Kunle was gentle-faced, and in his late-20s.
Far behind the officers was a ratty detention cell with half-naked men standing barefooted, oozing foul odour, and futilely squeezing their faces through the narrow spaces between the vertical rusty bars that jailed them. ‘How long will I be here for?’ A prisoner bleated. ‘Until someone bails you out,’ Tega barked without turning to the prisoner. ‘Meanwhile I don’t want to hear any further complains from you. Criminal!’ Tega channeled his attention to Kunle who scribbled on an A4 paper, lifting words from another document. Kunle was left-handed.
‘Where’s Femi?’ Tega inquired. ‘I don’t know,’ Kunle babbled coldly without lifting his pen. ‘Chief assigned good partners to everyone except me,’ Tega murmured as Kunle continued to scribble. ‘Do you have call unit on your phone?’ Tega began. ‘I want to call Femi and I’m low on airtime,’ he continued. ‘I don’t,’ Kunle responded abruptly. ‘You’ll never have,’ Tega cursed under his breath. Kunle paused, slowly abandoned the paper before his eyes, and burned Tega with a squint of disapproval. ‘You asked me a question and I answered. Why are you cursing me?’ he protested defiantly.
‘I will smack you if you talk again,’ Tega barked icily, sending shockwaves of fright through Kunle’s spine. Kunle quickly reverted to his routine without any further utterance, while Tega dipped his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out an old-fashion phone. He fiddled with the stiff keypads for a bit before raising the phone to his ear.
Femi’s phone was indistinctly ringing. The name-tag on his uniform read ‘Femi Kolawole’. He seemed distracted, looking ahead at the straight face of the receptionist, with his face wrinkled by a frown. He was mutely praying for Chioma’s awakening. Time passed slowly like grains of sand moseying through the funnel of an hourglass.
The receptionist failed to make any visual contact with him. ‘Who gave this sort of woman a job at a hospital? How can someone chew gum during working hours? I’m certain she didn’t attend a good university,’ Femi whined feebly, ‘Nepotism prevails in this country.’ He shook his head disapprovingly.
Tega was achingly listening to Femi’s caller-tune, vexingly waiting for him to answer the call. ‘Pick up!’ His patience ran out.
Femi was busy working his way through a crossword puzzle in a Vanguard newspaper he found lying on the empty bench he sat on. Finally, his attention was brought to his ringing phone as he felt mild vibrations within his right trouser pocket. ‘Who shares my phone with me? Why will someone continue to reduce the volume of my ringtone?’ Femi nagged within himself.
He shoved his right hand into his pocket and revealed a Samsung smartphone. ‘This troublemaker again,’ he sighed wearily as soon as his eyes hit the screen. ‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’
It was Tega calling.
Femi pushed down the green answer button with his thumb and steadily raised the phone to his ear. ‘Bawo ni,’ he greeted in Yoruba. His attention was utterly drawn away from the receptionist who glanced at him briskly.
‘A couple came to the station today looking for you. Something about their landlord threatening to evict them,’ streamed Tega’s voice from Femi’s phone. ‘Don’t mind them. They never speak the truth. Their landlord gave them six good months to pay their rent or vacant the property. They are simply looking for free accommodation in Lagos,’ Femi aggressively vented into his phone, thoroughly soaked in the conversation.
‘If that’s the case, we should go and force them out.’
‘No problem. When I get to the station, you and Kunle will accompany me there. We will throw their things out the window. They should relocate to their village.’
Femi was prepared to bring war upon their walls.
Tega lifted his left hand to his eyes, and gazed sharply at the face of the brown leather wristwatch tightly fastened around his wrist.
It was 12:03pm.
‘Where are you right now? It’s past twelve already.’
‘I am at the hospital.’
‘Yes, yes, yes! I remember now. Have you seen the accident victim yet?’
Femi’s attention was reversed to the receptionist seated before him. His eyes were locked on her every move. ‘They said she is fine but she isn’t awake yet,’ Femi hissed. ‘I am here waiting for her to wake, and hopefully she will tell me everything she remembers from last night.’ He hushed for a while, listening to Tega. ‘Later,’ he bided farewell.
Tega was now buried in the shadow of someone standing before him, across the counter. ‘Later,’ he sunk his phone into his pocket before looking on to Kunle. ‘God pass you,’ he declared, rolling his eyes at him with a loud sigh. ‘I have used my bonus airtime to call.’ He bragged. Kunle was still scribbling. He didn’t make any visual contact with Tega.
Femi sighed heavily as he dropped his head down in exhaustion. He stared without blinking, at the nicely-finished floor of the hall, with his phone still in the firm grip of his right hand.
Tega looked ahead at the person who stood before him. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ He grinned cheerfully at a huge, good-looking man dressed in a lavish Yoruba attire.
‘I was just robbed and the robbers carted away with my car and my money. One of them had dreadlocks.’ Tega’s smile was instantaneously washed-out. ‘How much are you talking about, and what model is your car, sir?’ Tega queried in a serious tone. ‘Two point five million naira and a twenty fifteen Range Rover…’ His voice trailed away. ‘Oghene!’ Tega exclaimed in Urhobo.
The often vibrant tropical sun appeared to be lethargic as it slept comfortably in the blue sky. Life in the populous and poorly sanitized city of Lagos seemed to be panning out faster than the day before.
It was February 15, 2016, a day after Saint Valentine’s Day—Christmas for the hopeless romantics, but for folks like Femi, it was just a typical day of work.
Femi restlessly sat in a yellow ramshackle commercial bus prying along the unforgettable Catholic Mission Street. With his fingers and chin numb with cold, his hands found refuge in his trouser pockets. He peeped through the shattered window beside him at the busy and familiar city that stretched to infinity. He was neatly presented in an essentially decorated Nigeria Police uniform, looking smart as always. The three red ‘V’s on his blue, short sleeves indicated that the dashingly-handsome officer was a Sergeant. Waking up in the morning knowing fully well that it could be your very last day, meeting and dealing with hardened and unrepentant criminals, chasing hoodlums down the street and getting shot at—that was as close to prudence as it got when you're an itinerant 30-something-year-old police officer in an environment where many craved for fast money and illegal activities.
His bus rode pass the ever-busy Lagos City Hall, the famous King’s College with students in sparkling white uniform loitering along the corridors before assembly was due to start, and the French gothic style architecture of the Holy Cross Cathedral with a few worshippers praying before the grotto.
Though born in Lagos, this was the first time the young officer had been to this part of town.
Like every other day in a chaotic city, a tourist could see and appreciate the daily and routinely hustle of hardworking and ‘fast-walking’ locals reporting to their workplaces, even before the sun rose.
They could easily take photographs of derelict public buses prying speedily and dangerously along poorly maintained highways, leaving a trail of thick poisonous fumes in their tracks, thus awakening self-destruction.
One could even catch a sight of a stampede, as determined and desperate ‘Lagosians’ aggressively struggle to board already-moving buses that are jam-packed with noisy citizens, and fearless young men literally hanging on the edge of bus’ entrances with their eyebrows kneaded in slight worry.
Every living thing that drew breath, even the roosters, were busy, crowing and roaming around every edge of emptiness, ducking to the filthy grounds beneath their feet, perpetually in search of food.
The well-enjoyed and long-overstayed weekend break was over, and the daily monotonous routine of the chief commercial city of its nation, unfolded all over again.
Femi finally arrived at Saint Nicholas House, a white fourteen-storey mixed-use building. ‘Saint Nicholas dey?’ the shabby bus conductor dressed in slippers and a smelly undershirt, barked in Pidgin English. ‘Saint Nicholas dey,’ Femi hurled back.
He disembarked as soon as the dilapidated vehicle came to a halt. The moment his well-polished black Valentino leather shoes hit the tarred road, the bus sped off, recklessly hugging the road again.
Femi stood tall before the high-rise building.
Slowly, he raised his head, training his sight at the skyscraper rooted before him, while private vehicles and commercial tricycles pried along the expensive Campbell road behind him. Beside him was an empty white ambulance, completely buried in the faint shadow of the tall building. After a momentary admiration of the elite landscape, he inched behind two female nurses in clean white uniform, headed for the entrance of the building, chitchatting to one another in high-pitched voices and laughing. There was a large blue signboard just above the entrance, which read ‘St. Nicholas Hospital’. Femi was welcomed to a neat, orderly and somewhat quiet king-size room. His orbs bright with anticipation, flicked across every square foot of the reception hall diffused with inaudible sounds. There was an old lady, finely wrinkled, completely grey-haired, wearing an old-fashion reading glasses, probably in her mid-70s, been pushed on a wheel chair by a young female nurse dressed in neat uniform.
The room was mainly crammed with five rows of posh iron benches where families of patients impatiently waited. Some were in grief, others were in tears, but many were overwhelmed with anxiety without any verbal interaction with anyone. Seated on one of the benches was a young gentleman on blue shirt and a plain grey trouser, swiping the screen of a sleek tablet, with his eyes glued on it. Next to him was an exhausted lady dressed in a native purple attire, dozing off without a snore. Behind them was a robust woman dressed in an uncommon ankara fabric, discreetly talking to herself in despair.
There was a vending machine at one corner of the room filled with attractively wrapped foods and bottled drinks. Next to the machine was the bronze sculpture of the Late Nigerian gynecologist and obstetrician, Moses Majekodunmi who founded the hospital. In front of everyone was a beautifully-lit mini-grocery store with an equally beautiful female store-attendant wearing an enchanting smile as she read Nicholas Sparks’ The Notebook. Femi swaggered further into the hall-like room, towards the stunning receptionist who comfortably sat behind a busy desk, chewing gum, and routinely stroking the keys of a keyboard, while perpetually staring at a bright computer monitor mounted in front of her.
‘Hello,’ Femi politely drew her attention.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘I am here to see one of your patients.’
Her fingers and jaw froze as she looked away from the blinding monitor and took a sharp glance at Femi who stood straight across the desk. ‘What’s the patient’s name, sir?’ She radiated a welcoming smile. ‘I don’t know but she was brought here early this morning after a motor accident last night.’ Femi said thoughtfully. She swiftly typed through a long database of patients.
‘Okay, Chioma Okafor,’ she read out.
‘You may need to come back later, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘The patient is stable and responding to treatment, but she isn’t awake yet.’
‘Don’t worry I will wait.’
‘It may take several hours.’
‘It’s alright, I’ve got all day. Just don’t forget to let me know when she’s awake.’
‘Okay, sir. Please have a seat.’ She pointed.
Femi turned around and boorishly paced away towards the identical benches. He sank at the edge of an empty bench just behind the woman in ankara. Instantly, he inhaled the sweet fragrance that romanced the African wax swathing around her curves.
Meanwhile, at the notorious Ikoyi police station along Awolowo Road, a one-storey building with blue, yellow and green stripes, valiant police officers in uniform were littered all over the premises, geared with bulletproofs, dressed in camouflages, and armed with semi-automatic rifles in one arm. They walked gallantly in groups, chatting to one another, or stood put nonchalantly, dialoguing with civilians.
A blue metro patrol van was parked in front of the station and along the neatly tarred road, with its engine still running. Two fearsome officers were seated in the van.
One was seated on the driver’s seat, while the other rested on one of the two long benches in the back of the van, dressed in black shirt and green khaki trouser, with an AK-47 rifle in his possession. They seemed to be maliciously waiting for someone to arrive or for something to happen. Just behind the police van was a private truck with impounded motorcycles jam-packed in its carriage. There was a signboard that strictly prohibited loitering, hawking and parking.
In the incident room, mini-sized, with a small desk at one corner, two junior officers neatly dressed in complete black uniform stood behind a counter.
The chair behind the desk was vacant, with rough dusty piles of brown paperback files defacing the top of the desk. One of the officers was a Corporal with two red ‘V’s attached to his sleeves, while the other was a Sergeant.
A white plastic name-tag pinned to the uniform of the Corporal, just above his left breast pocket, read ‘Kunle Adeyemo’, while that of the Sergeant read ‘Tega Ogbegbo’. Tega, in his mid-30s, was physically unimpressive, rugged, not handsome, not ugly—just plain. He was rebellious, rude, and out-spoken. Kunle was gentle-faced, and in his late-20s.
Far behind the officers was a ratty detention cell with half-naked men standing barefooted, oozing foul odour, and futilely squeezing their faces through the narrow spaces between the vertical rusty bars that jailed them. ‘How long will I be here for?’ A prisoner bleated. ‘Until someone bails you out,’ Tega barked without turning to the prisoner. ‘Meanwhile I don’t want to hear any further complains from you. Criminal!’ Tega channeled his attention to Kunle who scribbled on an A4 paper, lifting words from another document. Kunle was left-handed.
‘Where’s Femi?’ Tega inquired. ‘I don’t know,’ Kunle babbled coldly without lifting his pen. ‘Chief assigned good partners to everyone except me,’ Tega murmured as Kunle continued to scribble. ‘Do you have call unit on your phone?’ Tega began. ‘I want to call Femi and I’m low on airtime,’ he continued. ‘I don’t,’ Kunle responded abruptly. ‘You’ll never have,’ Tega cursed under his breath. Kunle paused, slowly abandoned the paper before his eyes, and burned Tega with a squint of disapproval. ‘You asked me a question and I answered. Why are you cursing me?’ he protested defiantly.
‘I will smack you if you talk again,’ Tega barked icily, sending shockwaves of fright through Kunle’s spine. Kunle quickly reverted to his routine without any further utterance, while Tega dipped his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out an old-fashion phone. He fiddled with the stiff keypads for a bit before raising the phone to his ear.
Femi’s phone was indistinctly ringing. The name-tag on his uniform read ‘Femi Kolawole’. He seemed distracted, looking ahead at the straight face of the receptionist, with his face wrinkled by a frown. He was mutely praying for Chioma’s awakening. Time passed slowly like grains of sand moseying through the funnel of an hourglass.
The receptionist failed to make any visual contact with him. ‘Who gave this sort of woman a job at a hospital? How can someone chew gum during working hours? I’m certain she didn’t attend a good university,’ Femi whined feebly, ‘Nepotism prevails in this country.’ He shook his head disapprovingly.
Tega was achingly listening to Femi’s caller-tune, vexingly waiting for him to answer the call. ‘Pick up!’ His patience ran out.
Femi was busy working his way through a crossword puzzle in a Vanguard newspaper he found lying on the empty bench he sat on. Finally, his attention was brought to his ringing phone as he felt mild vibrations within his right trouser pocket. ‘Who shares my phone with me? Why will someone continue to reduce the volume of my ringtone?’ Femi nagged within himself.
He shoved his right hand into his pocket and revealed a Samsung smartphone. ‘This troublemaker again,’ he sighed wearily as soon as his eyes hit the screen. ‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’
It was Tega calling.
Femi pushed down the green answer button with his thumb and steadily raised the phone to his ear. ‘Bawo ni,’ he greeted in Yoruba. His attention was utterly drawn away from the receptionist who glanced at him briskly.
‘A couple came to the station today looking for you. Something about their landlord threatening to evict them,’ streamed Tega’s voice from Femi’s phone. ‘Don’t mind them. They never speak the truth. Their landlord gave them six good months to pay their rent or vacant the property. They are simply looking for free accommodation in Lagos,’ Femi aggressively vented into his phone, thoroughly soaked in the conversation.
‘If that’s the case, we should go and force them out.’
‘No problem. When I get to the station, you and Kunle will accompany me there. We will throw their things out the window. They should relocate to their village.’
Femi was prepared to bring war upon their walls.
Tega lifted his left hand to his eyes, and gazed sharply at the face of the brown leather wristwatch tightly fastened around his wrist.
It was 12:03pm.
‘Where are you right now? It’s past twelve already.’
‘I am at the hospital.’
‘Yes, yes, yes! I remember now. Have you seen the accident victim yet?’
Femi’s attention was reversed to the receptionist seated before him. His eyes were locked on her every move. ‘They said she is fine but she isn’t awake yet,’ Femi hissed. ‘I am here waiting for her to wake, and hopefully she will tell me everything she remembers from last night.’ He hushed for a while, listening to Tega. ‘Later,’ he bided farewell.
Tega was now buried in the shadow of someone standing before him, across the counter. ‘Later,’ he sunk his phone into his pocket before looking on to Kunle. ‘God pass you,’ he declared, rolling his eyes at him with a loud sigh. ‘I have used my bonus airtime to call.’ He bragged. Kunle was still scribbling. He didn’t make any visual contact with Tega.
Femi sighed heavily as he dropped his head down in exhaustion. He stared without blinking, at the nicely-finished floor of the hall, with his phone still in the firm grip of his right hand.
Tega looked ahead at the person who stood before him. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ He grinned cheerfully at a huge, good-looking man dressed in a lavish Yoruba attire.
‘I was just robbed and the robbers carted away with my car and my money. One of them had dreadlocks.’ Tega’s smile was instantaneously washed-out. ‘How much are you talking about, and what model is your car, sir?’ Tega queried in a serious tone. ‘Two point five million naira and a twenty fifteen Range Rover…’ His voice trailed away. ‘Oghene!’ Tega exclaimed in Urhobo.
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